


As You Sail From Me

by ofwickedlight



Series: Purple Lions [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Canon - Book, Canon Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Consensual Underage Sex, Death, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Minor Joanna/Aerys, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Joanna Lannister, POV Rhaella Targaryen, Period-Typical Underage, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: Joanna was dead, and the sky was grey.
Relationships: Joanna Lannister/Rhaella Targaryen
Series: Purple Lions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1291451
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27
Collections: ASOIAF Rarepair Week, Femslash February





	As You Sail From Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to ["And Capered, Prowl and Away."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957621) It's not necessary to read to understand this piece, but I highly recommend you do read it to get all of the context and know backstory.

* * *

The letter hissed in the flames.

Rhaella stared at it. Watched it burn, shrivel, blacken. Slow in its death, curling, the ink fading with each lick of amber.

But it did not matter, because she saw the words.

Saw them, remembered, but she had not read them, truly. Had not understood them, or knew them. Yet her hands were shaking, and her breath was hitched and cut, and the words played and played, twisting, endless, a faint void, distant.

_With deep regret to inform. Birth. Blood loss. Dwarf child. Blood loss. Succumbed._

Succumbed.

Succumbed.

The letter laughed in the flames.

/

“Forgive me,” she rasped.

Joanna’s eyes glinted underneath the gold of her headdress. She was radiant, red as silk and ruby, gold like firelight. A beauty only a Queen should have, and make the world behold.

Ellie beheld it, that day. Watched her bless the court with the sight of her, and await her brother Ery’s words. His claiming, to make Joanna his bride, and Ellie’s sister forever.

But the witch spoke first.

“I wanted you to be Queen. I prayed for it. I swear it.” Tears sprung in her eyes, as much as she tried to fight it. _Dragons breathe salt, never fire,_ Joanna had told her, and Ellie remembered it, heeded it, but Ery would not look at her now, and Joanna was cold and enraged, and her crown had been stolen, but Ellie did not _mean_ to steal it, and Father had wanted this to happen, and Grandfather had let it happen, and she was so alone, now, more alone than she had ever been. She could not bear it if Joanna turned from her. She could not.

Joanna eyed her, cat eyes merciless and green. Ellie choked on her sobs. “Please, Joey. I don’t want this. Neither of us do. My brother wants you, and I—” And Ellie. A pathetic, hopeless lizard with a dragon’s name, bowing before a lioness, entranced by her smirks and caresses—a _girl,_ as taken by this woman as her brother was. She lowered her head, bit her lip.

Silence, the sharpest stares, stabbing. Then, hands, pretty hands, perfect hands, brushing her face. Ellie shuddered, closed her eyes.

“Of course, Kitten,” she said softly. The nickname birthed heat in Ellie, as it always did.

Ellie leaned into her touch, opened her eyes. Joanna’s face was as beautiful as always, but blank. So blank.

“Are you… are you cross with me?” Ellie asked. _Please don’t hate me. Please, please, oh please._

Joanna’s eyes flashed, but her face was unchanged, and her hand still cupped Ellie’s cheek, but Ellie could have sworn she felt the slightest prick of her nails, sinking into her face.

“I understand,” she said.

Ellie blinked, and found that she did not understand. But still, she smiled.

Joanna smiled back, and it was the prettiest cut.

/

“We were sorrowed to hear the news, Your Graces,” said the Council. It did not matter who. Rhaella was only here for one purpose, and she had already read her letter.

Aerys’ eyes flitted upward. “News?”

The Council eyed one another, watched their king. Perhaps he truly had not heard; he had been off with his mistress last night, after all. Perhaps he was in denial. Perhaps he did not care.

They told him, anyway. “The Lord Hand Tywin’s wife,” they said. “The Lady Joanna.”

Rhaella did not hear anymore after that. Just dull thickness in her ears, like water, rising. She watched her husband, though. Saw his face fall with each word that was sure to have gone by. Watched lilac eyes widen. And stare. And stare.

Then, he laughed.

He laughed, and it burst through that thickness, that dull silence, and it was a cackle, a loud, shrill cackle, so far away Rhaella could only listen in fascination, and slow, and stare.

“Well,” he said, grinning. “It seems the gods have sought to teach our sweet, proud Tywin humility, after all.”

It did seem so, yes. It also seemed that the gods never loved the Lord Hand at all, or his wife, or the twisted dwarf that had killed her. But they loved Rhaella less, most of all. Had never loved her, ever.

The words spiraled through Rhaella’s mind, and Aerys laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

/

Ellie could not sleep.

Her chambers were lifeless, dark, not even graced with moonlight to sing to her, or warm, filled sheets to keep her close. She held herself, searched the room as much as she could through the black.

And then, the creak of a door, and the slightest sliver of candlelight.

Ellie looked up, and gasped at the sight. Joanna. Come to her like a ghost of gold, smirking over her bed.

Ellie sat up as Joanna climbed onto the sheets. “J… Joey?”

Joanna did not answer. Just smirked, tossed back her rain of golden curls, moved closer. She loomed over her, now, the scent of Westerland wildberries and roses filling Ellie’s mouth.

She could barely find her breath. “What… how did you—”

Joanna grasped her face, _pulled,_ and her lips took her. Ellie gasped into the kiss, the soft sharpness of it, the wild, biting silk, and Joanna entered her. She tasted of wine, feathers and knives, and, _oh._ It had not been the first time Joanna kissed her, and yet—

Joanna played at Ellie’s silks, kissed her neck, palmed her budding breasts. Every touch was the sweetest flames inside her, pooling between her legs. She let out a mewl. “I… I don’t understand.” She didn’t understand, but _don’t stop._

“It is the night before your wedding, Kitten,” Joanna said, and somehow, Ellie was naked, now, her skin brushing against Joanna’s silks. “You should learn how to please our Aerys, hmm?”

Joanna knew how to already, Ellie knew. _She touches me as she touched him._

“I…” Another kiss stole her breath, rendered her silent.

Ellie felt a smirk on her throat. “Don’t you want to please him? To show him you are his?”

 _I am yours._ “Yes.”

There were fangs on her neck, claws in her arms, and then, those fingers reached low, _sheathed,_ and Ellie moaned, fell, drowned.

It was still dark when Ellie opened her eyes to empty, bloodied sheets, and the sweetest ache, and just beyond her, the slightest sliver of candlelit shadows. Tall, lean, and the other with a mane of curls, curves, and the cleverest fingers.

“What are you doing?” asked her brother, rage and hurt and lust in his voice.

The laugh was wicked harps, vicious, vengeful, gorgeous. “I broke her in for you,” she said.

/

Rhaella did not think of Tywin Lannister.

She didn’t think of his clenched fists, his rage, his emptiness. She didn’t think of the hollow maw that tore at his heart, if he had one. She didn’t think of the tears that dried before they dared rise.

She didn’t think of the grief the world had allowed him to own, to show or hide as he saw fit.

She didn’t think of her jealousy and pain, even in this moment.

She didn’t think at all.

/

The bloodied silk burned away eons ago, but somehow, Rhaella still smelled the copper. Not the smoke, or ash, or charred softness of her lavender gown that had so gracefully caressed her swelled belly like a kiss. Aerys had burned it with her, carried it and her to the hearth. He held one end of the dress, and Rhaella, the other, and they let it fall into the flames, watched the remnants of their lost child burn away, meet the gods, and their kin. “They walk with Mother and Father now,” Aerys had told her, softly. “Grandmother, and Grandfather, our aunt and uncles. Aegon, and Rhaenys, and Visenya. As it should be.”

But it was not as it should be. It should be that their child was still alive within her, growing. It should be that they were born in truth, silver and breathing and beautiful. It should be that she knew whether her dead child had been a son or a daughter. But it was a sweet lie, and she had let it soothe her—at that moment. Now, as she stared at the ash that had long grew cold, smelled the blood that should be gone from her breath, yet lingered, Rhaella Targaryen found that she had grown tired of sweet lies.

Hushed footsteps, the bed sinking under new weight. “Kitten?”

Rhaella didn’t speak. She did not know whether she would scream or vomit if she tried, so she just nodded.

Joanna didn’t coax her. Just ran a hand through her matted hair, until Rhaella turned, and hid in her arms. “Oh, Rhae,” she said, as she held her close. “This happens. You musn’t hide from it, nor must you let it defeat you.”

“It already has,” Rhaella croaked.

“It has not,” Joanna’s grip on her grew tight. “You are a dragon. Do dragons falter at one lost battle?” She pulled Rhaella away to look at her, and she had never felt so cold. “You will have many children, all as beautiful and strong as Rhaegar, and they will be ours, just as he is.”

Warmth filled Rhaella then. She remembered that night, when Rhaegar was still inside her, and Joanna had claimed the child as her own. A small smile came to her face. “Truly?”

Joanna kissed her. Not a claiming, as most of her kisses were—soft, and sweet, and slow. “Lannisters lie, sweet thing,” she said. “It is up to others to make our words true.” She lay Rhaella over the pillows, linked their legs together, cradled her. “Sleep now,” she commanded.

Rhaella did.

/

“ _Whore.”_ Joanna smirked, and it was the coldest thing Rhaella had ever seen. “Such foul language from our sweet queen. I am impressed.”

And enraged. Rhaella could see it in her eyes, even with her sharp smile and cool, unbothered stance. “You were dismissed, my lady,” Rhaella said, as queenly as she could manage. She gripped her skirts to stop herself from twisting at her fingers. “You should not be here.”

“So I heard,” Joanna said. “So did they all hear, _Your Grace.”_ She moved closer, a prowling lioness, and Rhaella was only a bird. She did not move, though. Did not cower. She remembered Joanna’s wedding. Remembered the rage and lust in Aerys’ eyes when he said _A shame my ancestors banned the right to the First Night._ It had to be done. _I had to do it, Joey. He would have hurt you, otherwise, and Tywin would rain more fire upon us than any dragon ever could._

Rhaella’s unyielding gaze cut the coolness of Joanna’s stare. For half a breath, a scowl took her face, but it was killed by a laugh. “Is this revenge, then? For marrying Tywin?”

Rhaella did not speak.

Joanna’s smile widened. “No,” she said. “For marrying him, _and_ outgrowing you.”

The ghost of tears nearly rose in Rhaella’s eyes. She blinked them away as she couldn’t half a year ago, at Tywin and Joanna’s betrothal feast, and the words swarmed her like smoke. “I will be a married woman, soon,” Joanna had declared, as she flinched from Rhaella’s touch.

“I am married,” Rhaella had pleaded. “That never stopped you from—”

“That was different.” She looked away. “Aerys knows about us. Tywin does not. I shan't risk it.”

“But… but you said I was...” _That I was yours. That Rhaegar was our son. That we were purple-eyed lions._ “The Queen,” Joanna had said, the title still choking bitterly on her tongue, even years after Rhaella had stolen it. “Nothing more.”

Rhaella had begged. Pleaded. _Confessed._ It had been for naught.

But now, though. Now, it hadn’t hurt any less. “I am the Queen,” Rhaella said. “And I have spoken.” She raised her chin, and Joanna did not look so tall, so leonine, then. “Now, leave, or I will call the guards.”

For one mad breath, Rhaella thought she saw hurt in Joanna Lannister’s eyes. If there were, it was killed by that cutting smile, that hatred. She turned, left.

Left.

/

Eons below, and the woman was still the sun. Her hair was aglow even from afar, curls cascaded in golden waterfalls, shining in the morning light, and the flow of her crimson gown was a burst of rose, a wound, a bleeding heart. Lannister red. She wore Lannister red, because she was a Lannister twice over, now, and she was going to the Rock, and she was leaving. 

Rhaella went as close to the window as she dared. Saw below. The carriage was so grand and massive its gold lions could be seen from several stories high, and towered over the human-shaped specks beside it, yet those specks were more clear and striking than it could ever hope to be. The Hand, and his lady wife. He was seeing her off. He had not objected to her leaving, from what Rhaella knew, but if he had, she would not have heard it—she retreated to her chambers the moment she gave the order, and hid, and cowered. 

Rhaella could not cower now. She must watch. She must see what she had wrought.

Lady Lannister waited for the carriage doors to open, to welcome her, receive her. Lannister soldiers bowed their hands as she passed, respect and fear in their stance even despite the lady’s new titles.  _ Deceiver. Temptress.  _

_ Whore.  _

The doors awaited. Lady Lannister moved toward it with all the pride of a lioness, head held high, back straight, chin raised.

Then, she stopped. 

Looked up. 

Saw her.

The softest hitch wrenched from Rhaella’s throat, and her heart—the  _ world _ —stopped. She clenched her skirts, gazed into those emerald eyes that were so far away, too far away. 

She would not hear her, Rhaella knew. No one had ever truly heard her. But that did not stop the whisper that fell from her lips, so soft and weak she may have imagined it.  _ “Joey.”  _ The sigh of a wind’s breath, faint and pathetic, not worthy of a lion’s ears. But Rhaella said it. Pleaded. 

_ Forgive me.  _ It was just a thought, only a thought, only a weak, wanting mewl in her useless mind, but Rhaella knew she heard it, she knew, she knew, she  _ knew. _

Joanna Lannister stared at her, eyes a silent, storming, merciless green. 

Then she looked away. As if she did not care. As if she had found a sheep, but chose not to eat it.

As if she’d seen nothing. 

_ Gods.  _ Spikes twisted in Rhaella’s chest, and the tears rose,  _ burned, _ but she watched, she watched, she watched. Crimson silk blurred through the silver, moving through those doors, fading into black. And that gold, that sun. Flowing like a golden river, just as it had run through her fingers once, brushed against her lips and belly and breasts. Vanishing the more she climbed through those doors. 

Those gates. 

Away from her. 

Turned away. 

Turned. 

Hated.

The ends of the glowing curls followed Lady Lannister in. Gone. The last. 

The last of the sun.

Joanna was gone, and the sky was grey.

Rhaella fell. Fell to her knees. Held herself. Held herself as no one ever would again, and the tears broke free, down her face, into her mouth, choking her. A weak whimper. A broken, ragged sob. A cry. She had not cried in so long, because Joanna told her not to. Told her to be strong. Told her of her blood.  _ Dragons breathe fire, never salt. _

But Rhaella was no dragon. 

/

Rhaella was not surprised to awaken to her brother, sitting in her chambers.

Her brother. Not the thing he had become. The ghost of Ery, sitting on her bed, eyes lost and disbelieving.

He looked up at her footsteps, saw her. Not a scowl or disgusted sneer, but a blinking, wide-eyed stare.

“Is it true?” he asked. “Is she truly…”

Rhaella was tense as a bowstring. “Yes.”

Her brother shook his head, frowning, trembling. And when the quiet sob escaped him, she listened, watched. His lilac eyes were pained, pained like they’d been at Summerhall, and he reached for her, reached for her before she could pull away.

Rhaella did not fight him. Let him cry. Let him hold her. And then she found her arms moving on their own to cradle him, as he cradled her. _She was never yours,_ she wanted to tell him, but she knew she could not die, this night, or any night while Rhaegar was still so young. _Nor was she mine. She died a lion, and we live as fools. She was never ours._ Never.

And yet, they both understood each other’s grief, knew it more than anything else in the world. So when he moved in her arms and kissed her, she leaned into it, and pulled him down onto the sheets.

/

_ Deceiver. Temptress. Whore.  _

_ It had to be done,  _ Rhaella told herself. A lie, to keep her,  _ save  _ her, protect them all. 

But was it a lie? Joanna was some of those things, or all of them, or none of them. Rhaella remembered that day. Remembered the shock in Joey’s eyes, the hurt, the rage as her weak, harmless Kitten stood below Aegon’s throne and  _ accused.  _ The words had left her mouth too quickly, too plain, vicious. Rhaella had never been a good liar. 

And yet. 

_ I had to be convincing.  _ Joanna would not have believed her otherwise. She would have stayed, and Aerys would have taken her, taken her as he’d promised he would the day Tywin took her from them both, and they would all be destroyed by Tywin’s wrath, all of them.

So Rhaella had knighted her. Knighted her in the only way a woman could. Cursed her with titles.

Aerys had new titles for Rhaella, too.  _ Stupid. Useless. Barren. Fat.  _

Rhaella was all of those things, and more. She knew that now. She knew many things, too little, too much. 

/

Copper, in every breath. Joanna let it out, ragged. With each pathetic hitch, each grasp for life, air, her clenched throat closed, her chest tightened, and the gape in her womb stretched, swelled, sloughed. Not even a gape. A hollow, a crimson spew, made by one of her own. They would not let her see the one who had done it. She had raised her chin, stared exhausted daggers, and commanded. “Let me see him,” she had said. “Let me see who has killed me.”

But it was for naught, and Joanna found that she did not much care. He had proven himself to be hers and Tywin’s—a vicious thing, ruthless in his will to live. A Lannister, no matter how twisted he must be, to tear through her so. No, she did not care. It was her husband and children she mourned for. She had never seen that tense dullness on Tywin’s face, that denial and clouded despair, that fury blooming in the greenest storm, just beyond his eyes. Joanna knew what he meant to do. Knew the debt he would make the boy pay. So she stopped it. “He has earned his place, Tywin,” she whispered to him, when he sat at her bedside last. And the boy had. If there was a debt to be paid for her losing the battle against him, it would not be paid with his life.

Her twins were no better. Jaime, utterly lost at the sight of her, and Cersei, driven silent by rage. Tywin would ruin them, she knew. Ruin them both, and especially the third. But the thought of it all drowned in that scent of copper, a lulling trance. It only reminded her of the last bloodied bed she’d attended. The one where the child lost, and the mother survived, but did not win.

 _I left her._ It came unbidden—the thought, the _guilt._ Words and times that had been forgiven years ago, and yet, in the red haze swarming her, it was still there, as new as it always was. The wine on her breath. The ringing in her ears from lutes and harps and horns that sang for her, and Tywin, and their fledgling betrothal. The laughter in her heart at the sight of Aerys’ seething, and the glittering green only she could summon in Tywin Lannister’s eyes.

She had pulled away when those tiny hands reached for her, though. Had spoken in the words of a coward. _I will be a married woman, soon._

 _Joey,_ she had pleaded. Her hair was captured moonlight, and her eyes were purple stars, fallen.

She had said more, but Joanna could not think of that now. Only smell the copper, and drown.

“Girl,” she called out to one of her maids. She could not remember her name, not while the room was swimming, and she was dying. “Fetch my satchel.”

The satchel was brought before her, and inside, her paper, and charcoal, and paint. Dead bark, and ink, and chalk, fighting the red with every stroke.

/

It was said that Lann the Clever stole life from the sun to light his curls with gold.

Rhaella believed it. They were all so beautiful, his descendants. Powerful. Golden and smirking, eyes of summer grass, tall so that the rays might come to kiss them.

It had manifested in her, most of all. Glorious, radiant, _goddess_. Curls aglow with the purest gold, emeralds for eyes, the smile of a lioness in the hunt. So bright, she blinded. A touch that burned. The sun made flesh. And there Rhaella was, so small, so silver and pale, the glooming moon, worshiping light.

And she had graced Rhaella with her light, for a time. Let her bathe in her warmth, and flower, and writhe, and drown.

The wind stirred, and the paper rattled. A painted thing. A golden lion, with eyes as purple as Rhaella’s. It had many brothers, the creature, painted on parchment aged yellow, old, whispering. _Look, Rhae. Our sigil._

This one was new. Too new.

And smelled of copper.

Joanna was dead, and the sky was grey.

/

 _Joey._ That whimper. That soft plea.

Joanna’s eyes lulled. Exhausted, yet wide awake. Darkness swirled at the edges of her empty chambers.

A rasping laugh left her. Of course she was to die after her family had left her for the night. Dying, alone. Somehow, she thought it was deserved.

 _Joey._ A confession. Joanna had not listened. But she had heard it then. And she heard it now.

 _Joey._ So many confessions she had of her own. Rhaella. The one she had denied until the day she’d deemed her _whore,_ dismissed her, shamed her, exiled her. The one who stole her heart as well as her crown. The one she never deserved, but selfishly held, all the same. Sweet little Kitten. So innocent she had been, before Joanna and the world corrupted her. And even then, she prevailed, and was more soft than any of them deserved to touch.

Joanna’s children were not that innocent, but gods, they needed her. As did their father. As did her Queen. And yet.

And yet.

Joanna closed her eyes. It was fitting, to be killed by her own son. She would not fight. She would wait. Wait for the day Rhaella met her in the Stranger’s arms, and she could pay her debt.

Darkness swarmed. Joanna closed her eyes, and heard it, truly heard it—a sweetness, a kiss, a herald, come to grace. Come to be the prettiest thing to die to. Come to take her away.

“Joey,” she said. “I love you.”


End file.
